


Since You've Asked

by nogoaway



Series: Tattoo AU [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Modification, M/M, Needles, Piercings, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tattoo AU PWP. North is into pain and really, really likes corset piercings. York is in therapy. These two things are (mostly) unrelated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since You've Asked

“These are designed to stay, but you get _any_ problems and they come out within thirty-six hours,” York says, for the third time. 

North just grins up at him, face half-hidden in the table. “I _know_ that. It was my idea, remember?”

York hasn’t done such extensive surface piercing in a long time– not many customers interested in a procedure that takes so long and can be pretty painful for a result that they likely can’t even keep. But he wasn’t going to turn down a chance to show off, and to be honest he kind of has a hard time with telling North ‘no’. So when North came to him with this idea two days before they were set to go to convention– 

“Wait a second.” York pokes a gloved finger into the back of North’s neck, way higher up than his guide dots go. “You asshole. You tricked me.” 

North hums, his eyelid drooping with relaxed smugness. “If waiting to ask you until the circumstances were most in my favor is trickery, then yes, I tricked you. Are you complaining?”

“Noooo talking,” York says, and North goes still under him, that almost inhuman, disquieting motionlessness that made him such an effective sniper for all those years and such a pleasure to work on now. York pinches the skin around his first mark with thumb and forefinger a few times, aiming the needle. “Breathe.” Straight in and a ninety-degree turn through the opposite guide– York takes it slow, the first one, to make sure he’s completely on target. It has to hurt, threading a three-inch-long hollow needle through upper layers of dermis, but North doesn’t so much as flinch. 

York _isn’t_ complaining, but he does feel a little stupid, the more he thinks about it. North’s been building up to this for a while, he asked for that anti-eyebrow a month ago and the frenum before that, which York had waffled on for entirely non-professional reasons before agreeing to. And North had asked him for increasingly painful ink, too: the watercolor wrist piece, the left leg sleeve that ran down over the top of his foot, and then the extension on his chest piece that wandered over his ribs and up into the right armpit. York has a policy where he won’t do rib tattoos for newcomers just because it hurts so damn much, but North had been utterly sedate in the chair, had jumped York in the back room as soon as he closed up. 

“Just so we’re clear,” York says, pulling the needle through so it’s even and reaching over onto his tray for a surface bar “I’m not gonna suspend you. Like, at any point.” He fits the open end of the bar into a taper.

Nothing from North. York taps him on the shoulder. “You’re fine.”

North huffs a laugh out into the cushion, and his mouth quirks up. “Never say never. But that’s not something I’ve really– this is kind of it, for me.”

“Your white whale?” York teases, pressing his palm flat on North’s back so he stays still, and threads the taper into the needle, pushing them both through the skin and pulling the needle off. “Your big Kahuna? You’re clear.”

“The limits of my pain sluttery,” North agrees, as York grabs his pliers from the tray and removes the taper, screws in the other doorknocker end of the surface bar, securing the piercing. The bar looks good, tight under North’s skin with small rings on either end– when he finishes this the tension will stay on the bar, instead of tugging at two separate CBRs. York’s a god damn professional, thanks much.

“There’s limits?” York wonders, idly, and gets himself another needle set up. Six on either side of North’s back, so twelve bars, twenty four rings total– they’re gonna be here a while. Probably what North wanted; he was very insistent that York’s schedule be clear. “Not sure I believe that.”

North just hums. York glances over at him, that one visible eye glazed over and heavy-lidded. He’s blissing on this– York can’t decide if he’s proud of himself, or a little weirded out. This is one part of their sex life he just doesn’t get. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it, just. Weird. “Cause man, are you ever into pain.” York is not into pain. He has five tats and he cried during four of them, and the fifth one he was mostly unconscious for, so. He’s happy to be on the other end of the needle gun.

“Yeah,” North breathes, when the second needle goes in, parallel to the first on the other side of his spine. His eyes flutter shut, and York has to bite his lip under the paper mask, force himself to concentrate on his work and not North’s face. “Slower?”

“Gonna be here all night,” York warns, but slows his hand, pinches the exit dot and guides the needle through until he can feel it poking up under the skin, right where he wants it. “Inhale.” North inhales, shakily. “And out, there you go.” 

The tip punches through as North lets the breath out. York indulges him, toys with the needle a little, evening it out and tapping his fingers on the skin. North hums, and York lets himself watch, for a moment, how North’s mouth is damp and a little slack and there’s a blush high on his cheek, the tips of his ears.

“You really do get off on this,” York marvels, like he does every time. He’s not judging, it’s just– so counter-intuitive. “Why?”

“Dunno.” North cracks his eye open, smiles at him. “Always been this way.” He blinks, lazily. “’M I bleeding?”

“Nah,” York says, and threads the taper through, finally. He doesn’t mind staying late– he’s closed, the rest of the shop is dark, and it’s just the two of them back here. North had him turn the music off, too, so it feels quiet and intimate and kind of like being home in bed for the night. This is York’s space, his little enclave with all his tools and his art on the walls and North spread out for him, warm and trusting. His canvas. “You barely ever bleed for me.”

“Shame,” North mumbles, eye slipping closed again. “Get you to cut me some time, maybe.”

York swallows. “Maybe.” The thought makes him a little queasy, but he does love it when North shakes under him. “I’ll– I’ll think about it.”

“No pressure,” North hums, and then they’re quiet, York working and North breathing, slow and steady, until York finishes off the tenth bar and realizes that North’s breath is speeding up.

“Two more. Need a break?” He asks, resting a hand on North’s ribs. He’d rub, but he knows North can find the latex irritating. 

“No, just–” North hisses, and then York gets it.

“Oh ho ho,” York grins, flopping down into his chair and watching North try, with limited success, not to grind into the table. 

“Just finish it,” North grits out, face red. York can’t tell if it’s arousal or embarrassment– probably both, although North really shouldn’t be embarrassed, not after all this time. He’s done things to York that are probably illegal in more retrograde states, and this isn’t the first time York’s indulged his pain kink. Once you’ve let a guy drip hot wax all over you in front of several dozen strangers, well. York figures the embarrassment cruiser has long since sailed.

“Nuh uh.” York strips his gloves off and wheels himself, and the office chair, out of his little sterile environment around the table to drop the gloves in the trash. “I’m gonna get some water, and _you_ are gonna cool off.” He pauses, swivels in the chair to watch North pant against the black face pad on the table. The muscles of his back and sides are flexing, trying to shift the surface bars around under his skin. “Weirdo,” York says, and rolls himself out into the main room, yanking a paper cup out of the dispenser by the sink.

“Freak,” North returns, as always, and York smiles as he flips the tap on.   
Five minutes later he’s back, with a fresh pair of gloves and a new mask, just to be safe. York would feel like absolute _shit_ if North got an infection because of him; just because this is a favor for a friend doesn’t mean his professional standards get to lapse any. Speaking of which–

“Shoulda had you sign a contract,” York says, stepping back into the piercing room and kicking the chair in front of him. “'Cause I’m pretty sure ejaculating on the table is not industry standard.”

“I didn’t _ejaculate_ , don’t be a dick,” North sighs, rolling his eyes. He has his arms folded under his chin; not ideal posture, but York’s almost done, so he won’t bitch about it. Better to keep North’s hands up and away from his naughty bits, apparently. 

This proves true– York’s just finished screwing the cap on the last bar when North lets out a long, shuddering breath. York can see from where he’s standing that North’s fingers are digging hard into the muscle of his arms. He takes a moment to admire the left sleeve– it’s one of his favorites; just looks black from a distance but up close it’s the night sky viewed from Irkutsk at the date and time of the twins’ birth. York had put a lot of work into that one, the research and the rendering. It’s as accurate as he, and the SIMBAD astronomical database, could get it. The Gemini– Castor and Pollox– are thin outlines, not so bold as to distract from the stars, but they’re there, leaning on each other. York grins. South had been _furious_.

“We’re done,” he says, and lets his eyes trace down North’s back. A good job, if he says so himself– the bars are perfectly symmetrical, and the line of them follows the shape of North’s torso, narrowing at the waist and broad up to his scapulae. The skin is only a little irritated, and there was no blood– with any luck they won’t reject. York is gonna be on him for aftercare like never before; North will need help with these. “Wanna see?”

“In–” North swallows. “In a minute, okay? Give me a minute.”

“All the time you need,” York says, ghosting his gloved index finger down North’s spine and watching him shiver, how the movement makes the rings shift and glitter. It really is beautiful. North has turned his body into an art gallery over the last few years, and it never fails to fill York with honor and pride and affection, how much of that work is his. 

York flicks the lower ring of the third left bar, just inside the twelfth rib, and North’s body jerks, his lats twitching. North twitched like that on the chest piece, too, when York ran the needle gun over his ribs. It’s not a pain twitch; he knows that now. 

When he finally does get North off the table and to the corner of the room with the mirrors, though, York’s starting to come down off his sympathetic high. What if North doesn’t like them? What if he regrets asking York? There are other piercers around who could do it; York even knows some of them. 

North turns his back to the mirror and tilts his head, examines the two rows of piercings at several angles in total silence. York tries not to bounce on the balls of his feet with nervousness. He thinks they look fine, that they look great, but this was important to North, and if North doesn’t–

“Thank you,” North says, finally, and then he’s enveloping York in a hug, pulling York so tight against his body that it’s hard to breathe for a moment. “Thank you, I really– they’re incredible.” York lets out that nervous breath, flooded with relief. “When can you lace them up?” And York smiles, because North sounds so eager, but also because he assumes _York_ will be doing it. He _wants_ York to do it. 

“I–” York swallows, tilts his head up and sees North practically glowing, bright eyes and goofy smile and fuck, he loves his best friend. This stupid weirdo. “Normally I’d say wait a few weeks, but I want to make sure it works before convention, so–”

“Now?” North’s begging. North _never_ begs. But that’s not a good idea.

“Twenty-four hours minimum,” York decides, and that’s really stretching it. “And just to test, I’m not gonna leave it in.”

“It’s 2230,” North says, and kisses him, threading fingers into York’s hair. He’s shaking, and York rests his hands on North’s hips, tries to calm him down with slow, deep passes of lips and tongue. It works, gradually, and North softens under his hands, breathes steady until they’re kissing with lazy affection. York breaks away reluctantly, but he’s tired, and they have to get home, and kissing North when they’re both standing is guaranteed to give one or both of them a crick in the neck.

“Tomorrow night,” he promises, and North nods, brushing a kiss to his ear. “My place. Don’t drive.”

* * *

 

York cleans _everything_ in the bedroom. He washes the sheets, and the pillowcases, and the mattress cover, and every flat surface, and all the toys in the box, even the ones that aren’t _for_ North, which is most of them. He stops short of laying down a plastic sheet, but only because North comes in around ten and starts laughing at him.

“Wow,” he says, clapping a hand on York’s shoulder “is this really necessary? This place looks like a hospital.”

“Infection is no joke,” York replies, automatically, and has to bite his lip to keep from starting in on his usual spiel, the one he gives to every single client and which, consequently, North has heard something in the order of four hundred times “and look dude, I know exactly where this evening is going. You can’t fool me.”

“I can’t fool you,” North agrees, and nuzzles into York’s hair as York tears open a brand new box of condoms and shakes the strips out onto the _very_ clean surface of his bedside table. Not a single coffee mug or gum wrapper or spare nickel in sight. 

There is a box of gloves, though, and the ribbons he got North, each washed and dried and sealed in an individual plastic baggie. He’d had to drive downtown to find the right color and material, but he was happy with them– all deep purple, North’s favorite color, and one with forest green trim. He had a few titanium chains, too, which he would have preferred– they could be more effectively sterilized– but North had wanted purple. 

“Shower,” York mumbles, finally. They have to clean North’s piercings, and then– well, this is about North, so. Whatever he wants. 

“Want you,” North breathes into York’s mouth once York’s dried the both of them off and walked them backwards into the bedroom. It’s a little awkward barefoot– without his boots York can’t even pretend that he’s not much too short to kiss comfortably, but North doesn’t seem to mind craning his neck down to get at York’s lips, his nose, his collar. 

“Lie down,” York murmurs, and shivers a little when North obeys without complaint, stretching out along the bed on his stomach. 

York steps back to keep his head while he examines the piercings. They look better than yesterday– almost no redness. North’s skin has always been accommodating; he didn’t have trouble with the anti-eyebrow or his micro-dermal, either. Still, they won’t really know if the bars will take for a month at least. 

North’s gazing up over his shoulder at him, just like he had on the table. “Please,” he says. 

York swallows, and strips a pair of gloves out of the box, fitting them on. Opens the bag with the bi-color ribbon, the one North had said he wanted. “An hour _max_ ,” he warns, and climbs up onto the bed, straddling North’s thighs.

North rolls his eyes. “Yes sir.”

“You joke,” York says, rolling one tapered end of the ribbon between his fingers “but I haven’t called _you_ that in a week.” At _least_. “Keep it up and I’ll start to think something’s wrong. Body snatchers? Midlife crisis? I can get my playtime elsewhere, man.”

“A little variety is nice,” North says, eye following the ribbon as York trails it over his ribs and spine and up to his shoulders “but no. You belong to me.”

York grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Lace me up, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Nah,” York says, and drops a soft kiss on North’s shoulder, over a spray of blackbird feathers. “That’s not what you want out of this.” He kisses up the curve of North’s trapezius, onto the nape of his neck “Relax. Let me take care of it.” 

Weaving the ribbon is strangely meditative– it slips smoothly through the rings, criss-crosses up North’s spine in dark sweeps that leave 'x’-shaped shadows on his skin. Aesthetically, York’s can appreciate it. He doesn’t really get the corset thing in general, but there’s something about the deep purple silk against a pale back, those exact geometric shapes becoming part of North’s organic form. An extension of him, but also not. York’s seen shibari done, once, and this reminds him of it, makes him wonder how North would look with those dark rope diamonds criss-crossing over his body, foot to neck. 

Or how North would look _weaving_ them, pulling York’s limbs in tight and taut until he can’t move an inch– York gives himself a mental shake. It can go on the list. He’s busy. 

North’s lying still under him by the time York reaches the top rings, but York can hear him panting into the pillow, short and light. He’s struggling not to move, and York goes still himself to appreciate it, to feel North’s muscles tensing in quick little jerks under his legs and hands.

He threads the last eyelets and ties the ribbon off with a bow, and North’s hips snap into the mattress. York smiles, kisses the back of his neck. “There you are. Wanna see?”

North groans. “Later, later, pull–” The panting gets louder when he lifts his head off the pillow. “Please pull it, just a little. Please.”

York smiles into his skin. “That might irritate the piercings. Ruin all my hard work.” It probably won’t, not with how well North heals up and how careful they’ve been. But he can’t help stringing North along a little, because oh, how the tables have turned. “Hmm. This is nice. I like this.” 

“Please, York,” North begs, hips rolling. “Please.” His ass is bumping up against York’s groin, like York hasn’t been hard already, since their shower. It’s distracting.

York sets a gloved hand flat against the small of his back, firmly. North stills, but York can feel how tense he is, practically vibrating. 

“Hey,” York says, and slaps him lightly on the thigh “Chill, all right? It’s just me.”

North huffs a laugh into the pillow. His shoulders are getting damp and shiny again, from sweat rather than from the shower. “That’s kind of the problem, York.”

“Sap.” York lets his finger trail up North’s spine, stopping just under the first pass of the laces. North swallows, loud enough to hear, and York hooks his finger up over the ribbon and tugs, just a little. 

North gasps, clenching his hands into the sheets. “Yes, yes, like that–”

York draws the finger back even further, tightening the laces by increments, and North wails into the pillow, bucking under him. His knuckles have gone white. York licks his lips and eases up on the ribbon, watches North’s shoulders twitch, sleek muscle convulsing. Jesus. That has to _hurt_ , is North really–

“Fu–” North twists on the sheets, turns a pleading eye up at him “fuck me like this. Please, York.”

“Yeahhhhh,” York says, sitting back on his heels and letting go of the ribbon. “That’s not happening until you relax. Deep breaths, bro.”

“Don’t 'bro’ me,” North grumbles, but sucks in an exaggerated lungful of air, letting it out with a whoosh. York decides that he gets credit for effort and reaches over to get the K-Y from the bedside table. 

“Explain it to me,” York suggests, tapping North twice on the spine in the center of one of the ribbon diamonds. That 'never say never’ has been tugging at the back of his mind all day, and he wants to understand this, at least intellectually. “The pain thing.” He pumps out a little puddle of lube into the palm of one glove. 

“Dunno what there is to explain,” North says, folding his arms under his chin and breathing steadily “Why do you like being tied up and, you know, so much?”

“Because I have daddy issues,” York replies, completely unbothered “and in the absence of parental approval–”

“Okay, okay,” North laughs, and York takes the unguarded moment to slide his wet hand along the crease of North’s ass, rubbing lube into the skin. No penetration yet– North doesn’t do this often, or at least he doesn’t do it with York, and they aren’t really in a rush. Well, _York’s_ not in a rush, and York is in charge at the moment.

“I pay good money for that therapist,” York jokes, smoothing the pad of his thumb over North’s hole, making him twitch. “I should make use of her insight. But go on.”

“It’s sensory,” North says, and York tugs lightly on the ribbon to encourage him. “Mmm. More than psychological. Endorphins are probably part of it. It’s intense.”

“But it feels like pain to you,” York wonders, just to confirm. 

North nods. “Yeah.”

This is the crux of it, for York. When North hits him with anything harder than the flat of his hand, which isn’t often, it’s punishment, and they figured out early on that York does much better with positive reinforcement. He likes what he likes: being tied up, being the center of attention, being good for North and getting praise and affection in return. Pain doesn’t do much for him; sex is supposed to be about feeling _good_.

“But when you got shot, that wasn’t–” he trails off, realizing belatedly that it might not be something North wants to talk about, when York’s working a gloved finger into his ass. But North only shrugs.

“It’s different. Precise. Controlled.” He rolls his hips back eagerly. “I’ve asked. It’s you.”

York feels himself blush a little. Can’t tell if he’s touched or disturbed. “But why _ask_?”

“Why ask me to say horrible, humiliating things to you?” North sighs, and York feels him loosen, slides another finger in when he can. “I just like it, York. Not everything has to have a deep psychological explanation.”

“Bad example, man.” York taps him on the leg with his free hand. “Apparently being degraded ‘gives me an illusion of helplessness and absolves me of responsibility for the sex act’.”

North hikes himself up on his elbows and twists his head far enough around to give York a disbelieving look. “What kind of bullshit–”

“I mean, she’s not wrong?” York frowns. “I don’t think. It sounds sensible?”

“Great,” North grumbles, dropping back down onto his chest with a huff. “So I’m what, in this scenario? Some kind of psychopath control freak?”

“Believe it or not,” York grins “we don’t talk about you all that much.”

“But you find dissecting our sex life with this stranger to be helpful.”

“ _My_ sex life,” York corrects, and twists his wrist slowly. “And I like Dr. Grey. She talks Kafka with me. You _never_ talk Kafka with me.”

“You wanna know what I think?” North’s hips grind into the bed when York pulls out and fumbles with the box of condoms on the dresser. “I think you like being tied up and degraded because it proves that no matter how badly you behave, I still accept every part of you.”

“I–” York swallows, rips a condom packet off the strip and stares down at it. “Wow, okay. I’m sorry I brought it up.” His face feels like it’s on fire.

When he finally looks up, North’s smiling softly at him. “Maybe less time talking Kafka and more time talking feelings, huh?”

“Oh, shut up.” York straddles him again, pushing North’s shoulders down so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. There’s something tight and warm in his chest, like anxiety but– not. North chuckles into the sheets. “Jerk. See if I indulge your weird sexual impulses ever again.” 

“You wouldn’t last a week.” 

“Says you. I’m gonna join a monastery. Vow of chastity, bro. Life of contemplation.” York gives himself a few strokes before rolling the condom on. This discussion has kind of thrown him for a loop. Sure North ‘accepts every part’ of him; He’s seen York at his worst, and vice versa. York doesn’t know why this needs stating, but maybe North’s self-conscious about the pain thing after all. Maybe he needs reassurance that _York_ accepts _him_. 

That’s the only reason he leans down to kiss North on the shoulder; well, that and to admire his traps. God bless the military. 

“You can start that tomorrow,” North says, wryly.

“One last night of sin,” York agrees, and sinks into him with a hiss. “Jesus.”

“No comment,” North chokes, and then he’s muffling his laughter in the mattress as York cracks up, too, leaning in on his hands to rest his forehead between North’s shaking shoulders. 

“Tell you what,” York manages, when the heat and tightness around his dick has proven more distracting than linguistic slips “no more talking.”

“Vow of silence,” North huffs, and York bites his lower lip to keep from laughing, thrusts in hard in retaliation. 

North tenses around him, then relaxes, and York hooks his index finger through the middle of the laces, tugs lightly. It’s a reward, and North’s back arches up into it, shifting York off-balance and _woah_ , North is strong or York needs to gain some more weight, or something. 

He scrambles with his free hand to get a grip on North’s side, and they fall into a rhythm, York twitching his wrist in the laces with each jerk of his hips, North rocking under him; humping forward into the mattress and grinding back onto York like he can’t tell what he likes better.

“You good?” York gasps, kissing messily at his ear. He doesn’t really expect a response. North’s a quiet guy in bed, and York just likes to hear himself talk. Or something. With North face down like his, he just wants a little reassurance that– “Is this it? This what you want?”

North’s head jerks in a nod, buzzed hair tickling York’s face. York gives him a harder pull, just to see what happens, and North’s fists clench in the sheets, he digs his forehead hard into the pillow and all York can see of him is the damp back of his neck, the red, red shell of his ears. 

“Does it–” York glances down to make sure North’s not bleeding, and jerks the ribbon, a quick little tug “does it hurt?”

North moans something in the tone of 'yeah’ into the bed, and squeezes around York tight enough to make him a little dizzy. Something else, though, something else for him–

“Up, c'mon– uh. On your side.” York goads North with the hand on his hip, still slick with lube, and they manage to flop over onto their sides without major incident. York can get his hand around North this way, and Christ but 'hurt’ really does mean something different for his good buddy, because North is hard as steel and it doesn’t take more than a minute of York working him like this to have him shooting off onto the mattress with a low noise. Practically a groan, way more than York usually gets out of him. 

“Weirdo,” York gasps, and pulls out, fumbling the condom off and jerking himself to completion on North’s thigh, because he hates having to do laundry and North just ruined his sheets. Fair is fair. 

Looks nice, too. Back of North’s legs are bare anyway, York should get on that. Maybe that scrimshaw-looking whale North was always on him about, or a clipper ship. Nice big rectangle. York strips off the glove and traces the hamstring contemplatively, letting the orgasmic buzz spread out from his groin to his hands, his toes. Nice. He’s very happy. He fits his palm against the back of North’s knee, squeezes him lightly. _Nice_.

North cracks one eye open from where he’s collapsed back onto his stomach, breath evening out.  "What on earth are you doing?“ His face is still red. "Lie down.”

“I’ll do the whale for you,” York blurts, into North’s ribs. “If you want.”

North rolls that one languid eye. “You hate the whale. Stop fondling my leg meat and get up here.”

York’s gaze drifts up from North’s leg over his ass, down to the dip of his spine and the crossed shadows there, the ribbon dark with sweat. “Sec.”

“Leave it,” North says, with a voice that sounds very much like a whine. If North whined, which he doesn’t. “Just– leave it, lemme nap for a bit.”

York squints at the piercings. No blood, minimal redness, and North all sleepy and sated and– 

“Fine,” York says, and stretches out on his side next to North. North is warm and York’s feeling a little touchy, apparently, finds himself edging closer until their shoulders bump. North gives a soft huff of a laugh and slings an arm up over York’s back, gathering him closer. 

“Sap,” York mumbles, and it breaks off in a yawn. 

North doesn’t say anything. York glances over at him– North’s got his face turned towards the far wall; all York can see is his jarhead hair. His back is rising and falling steadily. 

“Really would do the whale,” York says, or thinks he says; he’s getting sleepy, too, can’t keep his words in order. But North hums like he heard, anyway, and York weaves his fingers into the ribbon as he drifts off.   
  



End file.
